


A Study in Siblings

by ElizabethDurham



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: And everyone sleeping with everyone, PWP, Protective Mycroft, Protective Sherlock, Sibling Rivalry, What am I doing?, i have an actual chart - Freeform, no, protective everyone really, seriously, sibling approval
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethDurham/pseuds/ElizabethDurham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, Mycroft, and their younger brother Q are an unorthodox family. So John, Greg, and James aren't really that surprised when Sherlock announces he wants to fuck them all for science. It's a bit more of a shock to find that the other two are on board to...well....fuck their brother's lovers, and that this is all some twisted personality study to assure the Holmes's respective lovers aren't about to break their hearts. </p><p>Basically, PWP with a side of character study and an evil love of dialogue. I love these fandoms far too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fuck

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive any american-isms that slip my mind; I am not british, no matter how I might wish. And don't worry, I'll get to the smut eventually.

“John!”  
“What is it now, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock had been experimenting with alkaloids and their uses as skin dyes all morning, prompting a furious argument between the couple as to whether or not a mottled green-and-purple hand was a fair price to pay for science. John had won eventually, but only by dint of a good deal of shouting and an appeal to the man’s vanity.  
So now Sherlock was sulking in the kitchen, using some fingers Molly had brought over, and John was silently fuming in his armchair, studiously ignoring the periodic groans from his pouting partner.  
“Are you still angry with me?” Sherlock asked curiously, his tussled black head poking out from the other room, brow furrowed. John sighed, deciding to let Sherlock’s sullen demeanor of the past hour or so go unmentioned.  
“No, not really,” he said instead, “what is it?”  
Sherlock took a moment, trying to ascertain whether or not John was lying but, apparently satisfied, continued on:  
“Mycroft’s coming over. And Quinten. Apparently we have something to discuss.”  
John did a double take. Mycroft and Quinten? Was the apocalypse approaching?  
“All three of you? In one room? Please don’t tell me Mycroft’s finally roped you into some world-domination scheme.”  
Sherlock snorted,  
“Please. As though we’d need Mycroft to take over the world. I’d suggest putting on some cloths; they’ll be here in ten.”  
And he was gone again, exclaiming over something or other in their kitchen-turned-lab as John weighed the pros and cons of appearing before the assembled Holmes family in his pajamas and actually getting up. Once he discovered the rather prominent hole in the back of his trousers, he went for the latter, dragging himself up and into his bedroom to toss on the first shirt he could find and a pair of black trousers. His hair was a lost cause; Sherlock could be attractive enough for the both of them this time.  
Five minutes after John returned to the sitting room, there was a knock on the door, and John pulled it open (Sherlock was busy) to let Mycroft and Lestrade in.  
“Mycroft. Greg. Come in. Sherlock’s playing around in the kitchen as usual,” he took their coats, shooting the back of Sherlock’s head a venomous look for not helping.  
“Hello, John. I wouldn’t have expected any less of him,” Mycroft said smoothly, sitting down in the armchair beside John’s, twirling his umbrella as if he was already bored.  
“John!” Greg hugged him awkwardly, “good to see you. Has yours told you why we’re here?”  
John knew who the ‘yours’ was referring to. He and Greg got together on a semi-regular basis to bitch about their respective Holmes’s, recently joined by Bond with the addition of him to the ‘mad-enough-to-be-dating-a-Holmes’ club.  
“Not a clue,” he informed the DI, “though I’m guessing nuclear apocalypse or collapse of a first-world government.”  
“I’ll bet a tenner on it all being one of Sherlock’s mad schemes to wind Mycroft up.”  
“Done,” John said quickly, then added, “You do know Quinten’s coming too?”  
Greg swore briefly. Sherlock would never torture his younger brother.  
“I might as well just give you this now,” he sighed, handing John ten pounds, which he pocketed happily.  
“Thank you.”  
There was a knock at the door, and John shot the DI a little smile before opening it to reveal Bond and Quinten – nickname Q.  
“Q. Bond. Good to see you. Come in. Sherlock’s busy abusing dead bodies, so make yourselves at home while he wraps up.”  
Q nodded, thanked him, then drifted into the sitting room to hover awkwardly by the sofa, nervous and out of place until Bond came up behind him, setting two broad hands on his shoulders and letting the smaller man lean into him. John smiled, watching them. It was a good relationship where just the presence of one could calm the other.  
“John! John, I need your help!”  
Then there was Sherlock.  
“What is it?” he asked tightly, stalking into the kitchen to find Sherlock holding a jar of green fingers in one hand, a dangerous-looking flask of violently purple liquid in the other.  
There was no way this was scientific. This was Sherlock mucking about, refusing to deal with his family.  
And, frankly, John wasn’t letting him get away with it this time.  
He came forward, deliberately wrestling the flask away from Sherlock, then the thumbs, setting them both carefully on the table where they couldn’t do any harm, before frog-marching Sherlock into the sitting room to face his family.  
“Hello, all,” he said with mock-cheeriness, “Sherlock’s very glad you could all come. Aren’t you, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock muttered something John was not going to repeat under his breath, sulking over to the couch and throwing himself down lengthwise on top of it, forcing John to lift his feet up to take a seat.  
“Please, sit down,” he motioned to James and Q, “there’s room enough. If Sherlock would stop being such a bloody twat. And I think all the none-Holmes’s here would very much like to know what’s going on.”  
There was a pause, as Bond and Q both tried to let the other take the remaining chair, before Bond simply sat down and pulled Q into his lap with a bemused smirk. Lestrade took up a position standing behind Mycroft, like a bodyguard behind a king’s throne. And John was…well, John was acting as footrest for a still-sulking Sherlock. At least he wasn’t wearing his dressing gown, John thought gratefully. With Sherlock, it was best to focus on the small miracles.  
“I agree with John,” Bond spoke up, “I, for one, would like to know what the bloody hell is going on.”  
“Same here,” Greg piped up, and john saw Sherlock roll his eyes.  
“Oi!” John punched the nearest part of Sherlock’s leg he could reach, “Sherlock. We’re not all geniuses.”  
“Quite right,” Mycroft cut in, to everyone’s surprise, as he had retained his usual respectable silence throughout, “Sherlock, would you like to explain?” Sherlock’s pointed silence was answer enough. “Quinten?”  
“I told you, it’s Q,” Quinten said with exasperation. Mycroft sighed,  
“Very well. John. James. Greg. As you know, I have a vested interest in my brothers and their happiness. Sherlock denies any and all familial ties to me, but he admits to some trepidation on the state of Quin – I’m sorry, Q’s life. And Quinten, would like to know that both of his brothers are safe and happy.”  
There was a moment of silence as the three non-Holmes’s all silently asked ‘So what?’ in their heads.  
It was, of course, Sherlock who broke the silence in truly Sherlock-esque form:  
“He’s proposing we fuck you all, if that wasn’t obvious.”  
The silence this time was deafening disbelief. Bond was the first to recover,  
“I’m sorry. Did I hear you right?” he asked quietly. Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh,  
“You heard me perfectly; I’m not saying it again. Fuck, James Bond. I would have thought it a word you were quite familiar with at this point.”  
“Not in relation to my lover’s brothers, no,” he said mildly, then, to Q, “Q, care to explain?”  
Q seemed to burrow even farther into Bond’s arms,  
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, Bond. Well,” a pause, “maybe it is. But just hear us out. You know none of us are very good with social skills or…relationships.”  
Sherlock sat up in a sudden flurry of tailored suit and black hair, jumping in to finish off what was obviously a vexingly slow conversation a bit quicker,  
“Basically, we’re all a bit concerned about the effects of you all,” he waved a hand to indicate the three lovers, “on us all,” indicating the three brothers, “so, our proposed solution was to each observe the respective partners in a private, revealing situation that would serve, with each of our respective powers of observation, to give us a proper picture of you all and allow us to better pass judgment on whether or not you’re fit to stay, or of Mycroft will have to make you quietly disappear.”  
“I’d like to see him try,” Bond growled as soon as he finished. Sherlock rolled his eyes again.  
Lestrade, for his part, was still standing, slack-jawed, like someone had hit him over the head with a ton of bricks.  
“Is it…was this your idea, Myc?” he asked Mycroft. Mycroft sighed, staring vehemently at his umbrella as though it had done him personal insult.  
“I suggested we find a compromising situation to put you all into. Sherlock and Q decided on…intercourse.”  
Q let out a little giggle. The other five turned to stare at him.  
“What?” he asked, holding up his hands, “this is just a bit funny, isn’t it?”  
“Not particularly,” John answered, having long ago perfected the trick of appearing perfectly calm when he really felt like punching someone. Sherlock had that effect on people.  
“You must understand, John,” Mycroft put in quietly, “it will only be one time, and then only for each of us to assure the safety of each other. If there were a more efficient way, rest assured – “  
“Myc, are you seriously expecting me to let Sherlock fuck me?” Lestrade asked, tight-lipped.  
“Actually, I was thinking you would be the one to…fuck… Sherlock,” Mycroft deadpanned. Silence fell again.  
“I told you I should do the explaining,” Q said with annoyance, disentangling himself from Bond’s arms so he could speak clearly to the rest of the room, “Greg. John. James. As you may have realized, we’re not precisely what you would call a normal family. All three of us have needs that must be fulfilled by our partners if we are to function to our full potential. We are simply proposing that we take the appropriate steps to assure ourselves of your capabilities. In all likelihood, this will all be over in a few days, and we can return to our lives in peace, you three with our full approval.”  
“But in the meantime, we’re all going to fuck each other for science?” John asked. Q nodded a bit sheepishly.  
“Sexual intercourse is very revealing in that it puts two people against each other with only the subject’s base instincts as guides. To a trained observer, watching how a subject acts before, during, and after intercourse is quite indicative of certain deep-rooted personal traits that translate to the care and keeping of another person in a relationship.”  
Bond felt he had to point something out, as there seemed to be a slight flaw in their brilliant plan,  
“Q, you do know that whenever I have sex in the field, it’s not as myself. Those women get nothing of me, that’s just fucking. What’s to say I don’t put on a nice, simpering face for your brothers?”  
Q grinned, almost evilly,  
“Bond, you underestimate us. Firstly, we’ll know when you’re bluffing. Secondly, I will tell you right now ‘simpering’ and ‘nice’ are not two of the adjectives my brothers are looking for in my prospective lover.”  
“So what are they looking for?”  
“That’s the trick, Bond. You don’t know. Pretending isn’t going to help.”  
Bond sighed, shaking his head and wondering what he had gotten himself into.  
“Are we seriously going to do this?” Greg asked, still stuck in the ‘what-the-blood-hell-my-lover-wants-me-to-sleep-with-his-two-younger-brothers’ stage.  
“If you agree, yes,” Mycroft said.  
A third uncomfortable silence fell over the group, as the three Holmes’s waited for an answer and the three lovers tried desperately to figure out why they couldn’t think of an objection to the proposed plan.  
“If it’s what you want, Q,” Bond looked at the slim man in his lap, and saw Q smile gratefully.  
John looked at Sherlock, searching for some clue as to what the detective wanted him to say. There was an unveiled plea in his blue-green eyes, so John nodded,  
“Whatever you want.”  
Which just left Greg.  
“What?” he looked around at them all, “actually?”  
Silence. He sighed,  
“What the hell. Yeah, sure, but Sherlock’s not topping me.” Then he covered his mouth with one hand, as if registering that he was discussing the possibility of fucking Sherlock bloody Holmes.  
“Very good,” Mycroft stood up, pointedly not looking at any of them, “Quinten-“  
“Q.”  
“Q has a schedule and details which he will leave here. Sherlock, Q, would you be so kind as to join me for lunch so we can go over criteria and warnings? Bond, John, Gregory,” he was still wearing his bland, politician’s face, and John wondered just how uncomfortable he really was with the entire topic. How uncomfortable all three of them were, despite their rather flippant demeanor.  
“Fine,” Q grabbed his coat and kissed Bond thoroughly on the mouth before joining his brother at the door, “Sherlock? No use sulking.”  
John gave the detective a little push, knocking him onto the ground where he moaned, his impossible neck rolling back before he dragged himself up, tossed on his trademark coat, turned up the collars, and swept out the door without a second glance to see if his brothers were following.  
“Sorry about him,” John apologized automatically, and saw Q give a small smile.  
“We’re sorry too, John. We knew at some point or another something like this would have to happen, but the final conclusion we came to was a bit more…invasive than we’d planned.”  
“You’re bloody Holmes’s,” John said, with a bit of fondness, “I wouldn’t have expected any less.”  
Another smile, and the three brothers left, leaving a retired army doctor, a police detective, and a licensed killer together with Q’s schedule and the prospect of fucking each other’s lovers.


	2. Fuck Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, Mycroft, and Q go out to discuss particulars of their upcoming experiment, while Bond, John, and Greg discuss the more personal aspects of the upcoming...event at the flat. Alcohol is involved.

“Fucking bloody mad,” Bond muttered, as soon as the brothers were out of earshot, “absolutely fucking mad.”  
“Word choice,” Greg moaned, collapsing in Mycroft’s seat, “please, let’s bar the use of the word ‘fuck’ for at least another hour.”  
“Or a year,” John sighed, reaching forward tentatively, as if reaching for a bomb, and picking up Q’s neatly typewritten page. His eyebrows shot up immediately, and a sort of strangled laugh escaped him. The other two turned to look at him. John just looked at them, reading the heading of the page out loud:  
‘The Holmes family lover approval plan: an intercourse study.’  
“Tenner yours came up with it,” Greg giggled out. John shook his head, smiling slightly despite himself and taking out the ten Greg had given him earlier as he saw below:  
‘Report procedures compiled by Sherlock Holmes.’  
“I should have listened to Moneypenny and just walked away,” Bond moaned, and John laughed,  
“A bit late for that now, mate. Afraid you’re stuck with it.”  
He glanced down the rest of the page, skipping over the medical terms and phycology lectures until he reached the gridded chart at the bottom, with dates and names and…  
“Oh god. They’ve even established who’s topping whom. Well, Sherlock always was one for thoroughness.”  
“Let me see that.” Bond grabbed the paper from him, scanning the columns with raised eyebrows:

NAME----------------TOP----------------------------BOTTOM  
BOND-----------------Sherlock (Day 1)------------Mycroft (Day 2)  
WATSON-------------Q (Day 1)---------------------Mycroft (Day 3)  
LESTRADE----------Sherlock (Day 2)------------Q (Day 3)

“Does yours not bottom at all?” Bond asked Greg. Greg shrugged,  
“He basically runs England. I’m not going to blame him for being a bit fond of power.”  
“A bit,” John repeated dryly. Greg shrugged.  
“So who’s fucking me and who am I fucking?” John asked Bond tiredly. Bond glanced down,  
“Ah, you’re fucking Q, Mycroft’s fucking you,” He frowned, narrowing his eyes at John, “I’m not sure I like the idea of anyone else taking Q.”  
“Yeah, and I’m not too fond of anyone else with Sherlock, but apparently that’s what they want,” John sighed, already resigned to the idea. Greg was, still, freaking out,  
“What? You mean your little Q is going to fuck me? How old is he anyways?”  
Bond’s look was deadly,  
“He’s thirty-one. And a right better shag than either of yours.”  
“Oi!” John piped up, “yours is two feet tall. At least mine’s got some length on him.”  
Bond laughed,  
“Oh, yes. And he’s got about a pound of fat on him total. While yours,” he looked towards Lestrade, “yours has got half a walrus hanging off him.”  
“Alright, not everyone’s some crazy-fit 00 agent. It’s a surprise you don’t crush yours, honestly.”  
“And yours doesn’t crush you?”  
“alright, alright,” John raised a hand, “enough. It’ll be three days, and each of us has a night off, so really it’ll just be two. Then this is over and hopefully they’ll all be a bit better about keeping out of each other’s business. I think we’d all appreciate that.”  
Bond glared daggers at Gregory for a few moments, just to make his point, before conceding, nodding his agreement and relaxing a bit into the sofa.  
“Fine,” he said, “as long as we’re mutually agreed this isn’t exactly the most comfortable situation.”  
“Bloody right,” Lestrade muttered, and John privately agreed.  
They were silent for a few moments, each caught up in their own thoughts. John was wondering vaguely if Sherlock and Q were discussing flow charts and deviation values for sexual performance, and finding the mental image just amusing enough to stave off the annoyance and trepidation the entire situation was causing him.  
Bond was mentally preparing himself for the eventual necessity of watching Q go off with another man, even if that other man was one he liked.  
Greg was bitterly resenting Mycroft and his meddling, though that was mostly a coping technique to deal with the rest of…it.  
“I’m not nearly sober enough to deal with this,” John eventually muttered, stumping into the kitchen and retrieving three of the few non-alkaloid coated glasses and a bottle of scotch Mycroft had given them last Christmas. The look James shot him when he returned was one of pure gratitude, exaggerated after he knocked back the first glass with a speed that impressed even John, and he’d been in the army long enough to meet a few drinkers.  
“Greg?” he offered a glass to the DI, smirking slightly as he took it eagerly. They sat, drinking and thinking for a while, before Greg turned awkwardly to John, his words coming out stilted and unsure:  
“John? Uh…Sherlock. If we’re actually…you know. Should I…does he….”  
John raised an eyebrow, deciding to save the DI from his misery,  
“He likes it rough,” he said blandly, “don’t be afraid you’ll hurt him. He gets off on it.”  
Greg took another swig from his glass, muttering ‘of course he does’ under his breath. James smirked slightly.  
“Rough, or Rough?” he asked John with no sign of embarrassment. John rolled his eyes, finishing his glass and pouring another,  
“Like I said, he gets off on it. The mad stuff he’s asked me to do…” he trailed off, shaking his head. Bond grinned evilly, wondering if he might enjoy himself after all. Just a bit.  
“What about yours?” John turned to Bond, “He looks like one good push would snap him in half, but I doubt he’d be with you if that was the case.”  
James laughed out loud at that, starting on his third glass,  
“Don’t worry about Q. He can take whatever you give him.”  
“Glad to hear it,” John said into his scotch.  
“I don’t think I believe you,” Greg pronounced when he’d gotten his voice back, “I swear, he looks like a teenager who’s never seen the sunlight. And I’ve come across enough of them in computer hacking cases to know it doesn’t take much to break them.”  
Bond set his glass down, staring the DI down in a way that would have made lesser (or more sober) men quail, but Greg just stared back.  
“I will forget, for the moment, that you’ve compared Q to one of those bloody amateurs, as I’m hoping that’s the scotch talking,” he began lightly, “but I really don’t think you want to make the mistake of underestimating Q. I’ve seen him shoot a man in cold blood for me and blow up a roomful of terrorists without batting an eye. Can you say as much of yours?”  
John would have warned Bond off the last statement, but it was too late. Greg smirked, happy to finally be on top of the conversation,  
“Actually, yes,” he said, “Mycroft Holmes runs MI6, in case that wasn’t clear to you. Why do you think he hasn’t been kidnapped by now; he’s got plenty of enemies? They’re all too bloody scared of what he’d do to them. He gets annoyed with the current PM and you get the order to start quietly exposing his dirty laundry in foreign countries. Some naïve upstart dictator threatens him; you’re sent over with a gun and execution orders.”  
They were too drunk by now for a staring contest, but an approximation of the confrontation occurred. John sighed,  
“Alright, alright, you’ve both got bloody impressive boyfriends, we’ve established that. Now come on. Bond, what does your Q like? I’d like to make this as enjoyable as possible for us all.”  
“I can’t believe I’m discussing the sexual preference of Myc’s brother with his lover,” Greg muttered. James and John ignored him.  
“He likes pretty much anything,” James shrugged, “he likes being touched. He’s also got a bit of an oral fixation you might as well take advantage of. Oh, and if you let him ride you, you won’t regret it.” James smiled dirtily, and John had to hide his smirk. Well. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad after all.  
“As for bottoming,” James turned to Greg, “he’s considerate. Tell him what you like, and he’ll adjust. He just likes to please, really, though don’t underestimate him.”  
Greg nodded. He thought for a moment, then, apparently deciding however weird the situation was, he might as well return the favor.  
“Myc’s something of a power addict, in case you haven’t noticed. If you just let go, he’ll make sure you enjoy yourself, but if you push back a bit he has quite a bit of fun….breaking you.” The last two words were spoken uncomfortably, but James and John wore matching little leers. Greg narrowed his eyes,  
“Hey,” he said slowly, “Myc’s mine, got that?”  
“Perfectly,” Bond smirked. Greg sighed, deciding to ignore Bond in favor of John,  
“So what about Sherlock then?” he asked, “anything we should know. I must say, I thought he’d be a top for sure. Or did Mycroft just make him bottom so they could get the right test results.”  
John shook his head,  
“Oh no, he’s definitely a sub. I was surprised too, but he likes…giving up control. Not easily; don’t be afraid to push him, he likes eventually giving in. And, of course, the pain.”  
“Actual pain, or just a little pinch here and there?” Bond asked curiously. John smiled, gesturing to the wall where a black riding crop was propped up against the mantle,  
“why do you think we have that lying around?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I think I got all the misspelled 'Lestrade's, but if anyone sees any, please do mention it. Thanks much.


	3. Fuck Ramifications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes brothers all go home with their lovers, discussion the planned experiment. Fluff, and character study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No porn yet; I did want to have some set-up before delving into the PWP

The Brothers returned around six, squabbling about something they knew well enough that only about every third comment was actually said aloud, a common enough occurrence for Greg and John who spent a considerable amount of time in the eldest two’s presence, but weird enough for Bond that he ended the night in a huff, dragging Q from the flat before John could offer a half-hearted dinner invitation for politeness’s sake. Greg and Mycroft left about half an hour later, John and the DI standing slightly apart from the other Holmes’s, awkwardly not speaking about It, just as awkwardly not listening to the Holmes’s debate what sounded like the psychology of sex in their half-verbal way. It was a relief when Sherlock finally picked up his violin and Mycroft stood, thanking John for his hospitality and ushering Lestrade out the door on his arm.   
“What the hell was that, Sherlock?” John asked the moment the door had closed, “No, seriously, Sherlock. What the bloody hell was that?”  
Sherlock shrugged, scraping the violin’s bow across his neck before embarking on a ferociously energetic dance that was far too upbeat for John’s nerves. He reached forward, plucking the violin from his lover’s grasp, staring the petulant man in the face to make sure the message got across:  
“Sherlock. I just agreed to sleep with your two brothers for research purposes. I do hope you understand why I want a thorough explanation.”   
It looked for a moment as though Sherlock was going to argue, but after a few moments of awkward staring, he set his bow aside, lying lengthwise across the couch and lifting his head so John could scoot in edgewise, splaying Sherlock’s curls across his lap.   
“It wasn’t supposed to be…distressing. Mycroft’s an interfering bastard; he was all for sticking you in a war zone to see how they dealt with watching us in danger, but I overruled him because of your PTSD. Q proposed a hostage scenario, but in the end it was decided that wouldn’t provide a direct enough rout to your instincts. Sex seemed like the least disruptive option.” A shrug, and John felt Sherlock turn over slightly, nuzzling into his crotch in a way that made it very hard to think.   
“Disruptive my arse,” he muttered ignoring the warmth spreading through his cock, “are you seriously alright with letting your brothers fuck me?”   
Sherlock looked up for a moment, and his gaze was sharp, intent, the look he got when a particularly fascinating puzzle presented itself,  
“John,” he began evenly, “never. Never. You are mine.,” The fierce possessiveness in his words warmed John. “But,” he continued, “this is the easiest way for you to garner both Q and Mycroft’s approval. I don’t think I have much to worry about with you falling for Mycroft, and Bond is attractive enough that Q will probably keep himself to himself.”  
“Oi! I may not be a 00, but I’m not doing that bad, am I?”  
Sherlock’s response was to roll back over, mouthing at John’s trousers and tugging at his zip with feral intensity. John’s head fell back, and he felt Sherlock’s dark chuckle around his cock,  
“No, John. You’re not.”  
Bond and Q were still bickering lightly when they got out of Bond’s ridiculously fast sports car and threaded their way through several back-alleys and supposedly solid walls to their flat. The extra precautions had been MI-6’s insistence. Their variety and security were Bond and Q’s doing, respectively.   
“You’re all bloody madmen,” Bond continued as Q typed in his twelve-digit code and let them into a cavernous space that made far too much use of computers and wires as decoration.   
“Not mad. Just a bit protective, that’s all. And unorthodox. And really, Bond, It wasn’t like that was news to you.”  
“No. The fact that you would let – scratch that – that you would want your two older brothers shagging me is news, however.”  
Q sighed, shaking his head. He padded into the kitchen, fetching Bond a cup of coffee from the whirring pot, remotely activated as soon as they left Sherlock’s apartment to heat to precisely the correct temperature. A hot water heater on the other side was similarly triggered, so it was a simple matter to pour dark black coffee into one mug for Bond, tea and sugars into another.   
“Please,” he held out the coffee to Bond, “Please, Bond. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. I love you. You know that. If I thought there was the slightest chance I would loose you to either Sherlock or Mycroft, I would call this off in a second. But I don’t think you’re that stupid.” He smiled in what he hoped was a semi-reassuring manner, secure in knowing it was at least insecure enough to garner Bond’s trust.   
Bond reached out for the mug, taking it in two hands and leading Q by his presence over to the couch, where he sat, sipping demurely, until Q settled beside him, legs over Bond’s lap.   
“Fine,” he finally said, “I trust you.”   
Q let out an audible sigh, knowing how much those words meant with Bond.   
“Thank you, Bond. Thank you for doing this. And I owe you one.”   
Bond smirked evilly, raising one eyebrow,  
“Really? Didn’t Moneypenny ever warn you not to get in my debt?”   
Q thought about it for a moment, then shook his head,  
“No. I don’t think she took me for that much of an idiot.”

Mycroft got ready for bed without a word to Gregory, having already proposed to wait until they were somewhere comfortable before going over the ramifications of the previous few hours. Greg had agreed, ungracefully, but he had agreed, so now he waited in their ridiculously opulent bed, arms crossed, as Mycroft glided in, his pinstriped silk pajamas a more flexible mirror of his daytime suit.   
“So,” Greg began pointedly. Mycroft sighed, throwing back the duvet and snuggling down inside, reaching out to embrace Greg, but finding the other man in no mood to be cuddled. He shrugged,  
“Suit yourself. So what, precisely?”  
Greg rolled his eyes, smart enough to know when Mycroft was stalling. Mycroft sighed again,  
“Very well. I assume you aren’t entirely happy with Sherlock and Q’s proposal?”  
“It was your proposal too, by the sound of it!”  
“Yes. Well, I would not have suggested intercourse, if that makes any difference.”  
“I’m not sure it does.”   
Greg stared mutinously at his partner for a few moments, before Mycroft finally relented, sitting back up and composing his thoughts:  
“Sherlock and Q explained it rather well, if eclectically.”  
Greg held up a warning hand, stopping Mycroft in his tracks.   
“No, Myc. This is not going to be one of those ‘I-use-big-words-like-eclectic-so-Greg-doesn’t-know-enough-to-argue,’ debates, got it? Civilian terms. Said slowly.”  
Mycroft all but rolled his eyes, but acquiesced,  
“We all care about each other, to some extent. Even Sherlock and I, though it’s a bit less than obvious. And, despite whatever perceptions you may have of us, none of the Holmes’s ever really internalized the idea of social skills like most people do during early development. Consequently, our relationships, when formed, can be either much more distant than is considered normal, or much, much more dependent. I don’t think you fully comprehend how much I depend on you, Gregory, though you may be able to see it in Q and James and defiantly Sherlock and John. We all need someone to balance out or own hectic personalities, and once we find such a person we latch on and don’t let go. It’s symbiotic, as you’ve probably found, but at the same time we open ourselves up to being hurt at a very deep level. And, with the skills the three of us possess, it’s better for all of us if none of us have to experience that total heartbreak. That’s what this experiment is about; making sure all three of us have the proper support to continue developing productively and – to an extent – normally.”  
“Only you could make a sibling orgy sound like a pledge to save the world and my lover,” Greg griped, but didn’t comment further, giving up to Mycroft’s arms which had casually snaked around his back, engulfing him in his solid warmth. He would worry about the ramifications tomorrow, he decided. When he wasn’t quite so…tired.


	4. Fuck it all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night 1. Sherlock and Bond, Q and John. Things don't go quite according to plan, Sherlock is a terrible person with terrible mind games, and John's thoroughly fed up with the entire affair. Porn. Just porn, really. Then character study. Then porn.

“What? Right now?”   
“Yes, John. I told you this morning they would be by,” Sherlock pointed out in a long-suffering tone of voice, which John found particularly unfair, as that had been at eight o’clock before his morning cup of tea, and it wasn’t as if ‘be by’ was some strange euphemism for ‘going to fuck,’ was it?  
Bond was smirking slightly which, if John hadn’t learned before was the man’s default setting in uncomfortable situations, would have irked John into an actual rage. As it was, he managed to take a deep breath, calming himself as Bond hung his coat up, though he noticed Q stayed as he was.   
“Sherlock, you have to give me some warning before you…before you…”  
Sherlock sighed dramatically, his head falling back over the arm of the couch as though the entire thing were a supreme waste of his time,  
“You were warned, John. Last week? This was the first available day for our tests. I informed you this morning, and now here they are.”  
John was tempted to argue, to put his foot down on the entire mad affair and storm up to bed (alone), but Sherlock was, if anything, a master manipulator when he wished to be, and in a moment the taller man was standing before his army doctor, arms around his waist, looking down at him with such rare affection and trust John would have agreed to jump off the end of the earth if he asked.   
“Please, John?” he asked quietly, and John nodded, smart enough to know defeat when he saw it. Sherlock smiled, bouncing away, and John noted the tosser had been standing on his tiptoes, just for effect. He shook his head, but said nothing, turning resignedly to Q and Bond.  
“Can I offer you a drink perhaps?” he asked, though he had a sneaking suspicion as to what the answer would be.   
“Afraid not, John,” Q said predictably, “I think we’d all like to get this over as soon as possible.”  
John nodded. It wasn’t as if he disagreed with that statement.   
“Fine by me. So…how are we going to do this?”   
Q and Sherlock looked at each other, and as usual it felt as though they had conducted an entire conversation in the interim.   
“Not this again,” Bond muttered, “Q, speak like normal humans and tell us what you’re debating in those clever heads of yours.”  
Sherlock smirked, standing up and straightening his suit jacket and – John noticed with a little pang of annoyance – his silky purple shirt,  
“We’re discussing locations. We could, of course, all conduct the experiment here, which would be preferable for me, but I don’t think the emotional strain on John or Bond is advisable, what would you say?”  
John and James considered briefly. It would, of course, be preferable if they didn’t have to just leave their lovers with another man, but at the same time watching them be fucked by a friend was probably worse.   
“Separate locations would probably be advisable,” Q deduced from James’s features and Sherlock, studying John just as closely, nodded his agreement, flopping back onto the couch and steepleing his fingers. Q sighed, rolling his eyes.   
“Sherlock’s not moving,” he translated for Bond (John was familiar enough with the detective’s mannerisms by now), “which means John and I will go back to ours. Is that alright?”  
Bond nodded slowly, staring between Sherlock and Q as if unsure whether this was actually happening. Q reached up to press his lips against Bond’s, chaste, but with enough pressure to hurt.   
“I’ll see you at home. And don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while,” he whispered into Bond’s neck, and the agent allowed himself a small smirk.  
“You had better,” he replied with a growl, squeezing Q’s forearm tightly before letting go. Q nodded, smiling slightly, then turned to John.  
“Are you ready to go?” he asked politely. John nodded, glancing once at Sherlock to see if he wanted to…he didn’t know, really, but Bond and Q’s display made him feel like he should be doing something.   
Sherlock didn’t move a muscle, staring listlessly up at the celling, carefully not making eye contact.   
“Leave him,” Q whispered, “he’s trying to help. Distancing himself, you know,” then, at John’s rather confused expression, “come on. No point worrying over it. The car’s outside.”   
John grabbed his coat and, after a last glance back at the consulting detective, left with his brother, fully aware that he was going to fuck the smaller man, and that his lover was the one suggesting it. 

*************************  
As soon as the door clicked shut in 221B, Sherlock leapt up, yelling something that sounded vaguely like ‘need the right armor’ behind him to Bond, who stared mildly after the retreating detective, taking a seat in John’s armchair as various thumps and grunts of annoyance echoed from above him.   
He wasn’t overly worried about that night, actually. MI-6 had trained him to extract information by any means necessary, and during his astonishingly long tenure at the agency he had found sex an incredibly reliable method for extracting information. In his mind, the current circumstances weren’t much different. There was, of course, the added weirdness of them all being brothers, exchanging lovers, but they were different enough in persona that it was, to him, negligible. He still slept with women (and men) for missions, and this would be no different. Unfortunate, but unavoidable.   
It took the detective five minutes to extricate himself from what sounded like quite an eccentric costume closet. One particularly long, hollow thump Bond had tentatively identified as a metal helmet.   
“Hello, Bond,” Sherlock said as he swung down the stairs again, but his voice was different. Even deeper than usual, rougher. And hot as hell. He was dressed simply, hardly changing from his previous outfit, the only noticeable difference the color of his shirt, which was now a dark gold. Bond considered himself something of a connoisseur of beauty, and he hadn’t failed to appreciate just what Q’s brother could do if he tried, but this was something else altogether. This wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, the sharp, antagonistic, dethatched detective, this was someone clever, yes, but with a bit of play in him, someone damn sexy, but…open. Someone…  
Bond’s eyes widened. Bloody hell. Sherlock was imitating his brother, imitating Q when he was in a mood to play with Bond.   
Of course, the first thought that hit Bond’s addled brain was ‘how the hell does he know what Q does when he’s playing the tease?’ which was quickly overruled by the more urgent question of:  
‘How am I supposed to keep this separate if he looks, and acts, like Q?’  
No matter what his quartermaster had said, Bond hadn’t been planning on letting himself go entirely, of being entirely himself during this ‘experiment.’ It wasn’t his nature, to show too much of what was behind the mask. He’d made an exception for Q, but then, that was Q. Not his emotionally challenged, aloof older brother.   
“Something got your tongue, James?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow, sauntering forward with a teasing lilt to his hips and that fucking voice, “Shall I help you with that, then?”   
He was so close, his nose a bare inch from Bond’s eyes dancing. One quick move of the neck and head, and he had his lips pressed up against Bond’s; a quick, hard peck reminiscent of Q’s goodbye kiss. As if Bond needed anything else to mess him up.   
“Sherlock…what?” he tried to ask around the detective’s insistent lips, but Sherlock didn’t let up, licking into the agent’s mouth with a tongue far too skilled for someone who apparently distained emotional attachment and proceeding to drive Bond mad.   
“Enjoying yourself, are we?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, drawing back, “Don’t worry. Q’s given his approval. Anything you do tonight is for research purposes and therefore,” another furious kiss, followed by a whispered, “without regrets.”  
Bond moaned. How the hell could he be expected to keep a straight head through this?   
There was a muted buzz, which Bond took no notice of, but Sherlock stopped, reaching into Bond’s back pocket (making sure to squeeze the man’s admittedly perfect arse) and drawing out his mobile phone, which he handed to Bond with a small smirk. Bond took it, reading the short text from Q with a fond shake of his head:  
I’ll give you a hint: Sherlock’s not looking for sweet and tender. Try to enjoy yourself; it’s the least we can do.   
-Q

Mad. Utterly, perfectly, mad.   
************************  
“Car’s just up here,” Q pointed up the street, hugging his own collared coat up around him, like Sherlock did.  
“You can talk, you know,” he said with a smile, glancing back at John as they reached the car, tossing the keys to John and getting in the left side, “you drive.”  
John nodded mutely, getting in and starting the car up, noticing the GPS on the dash had already outlined his rout.   
“Was it your idea?” he asked finally, “the sex?”  
Q thought for a moment, then said,  
“No. Well, I don’t know. Sherlock, Mycroft, and I came up with a few possibilities, and we somehow ended on this one. I don’t think we kept track of individual contributions.”  
“Was it your favorite option?”  
“Favorite’s an odd word to use for this situation, Doctor Watson. It was the most practical.”  
“John, please,” John said automatically, and Q inclined his head,   
“John then. Does it matter?”   
He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head,  
“I suppose not. It just seems a bit of an odd solution to your problem.”  
Q shrugged, “We’re an odd family. Just here, John. Pull into the driveway; you’ll see the spot.”   
John followed the younger man’s directions, rolling the car into a private lot where he turned off the motor and got out, staring up at the slightly disconcertingly normal apartment building to his right.   
“No barbed wire fences or spotlights?” he asked. Q smirked,  
“I vetoed them. James was all for guard dogs.”   
John smiled. Q saw the expression and relaxed, just a bit. Sherlock and Mycroft might be fond of all their mind games and power plays, but Q was content just to observe, and observing was infinitely easier if the subject was relaxed.   
“So…do we just go in? Or will I get shocked for stepping over the mantle?” John asked lightly, though Q, suddenly busy with his phone, somewhat destroyed the mood by muttering,  
“You should be fine. Avoid the roof, though.”   
John rolled his eyes. Bloody Holmes’s.   
***********************  
Bond had given up. It was too bloody much. Now he saw what Q had been doing, going up to bed early for the past two nights. It’d been the beginning of this bloody mind game. He needed a proper fuck, and here was a man practically Q’s twin, offering himself up with that same little smile, that same tease. He was even wearing a yellow shirt.   
Well fine. Q had said he wasn’t looking for sweet and delicate, Bond could manage that.   
Throwing his phone in the corner, Bond wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him close and crushing the slimmer man up against his chest. Sherlock let out an indecent moan that only served to further Bond’s arousal. Fuck it all, he loved Q, and if the Holmes brothers couldn’t see that with all their bloody genius, they could go fuck themselves. Bond wasn’t going anywhere. So he might as well enjoy himself and take the chance to teach the bloody great prick a lesson.   
“James!” the detective groaned as Bond let his teeth graze the side of Sherlock’s neck, before biting his collarbone hard. Not hard enough to bruise (he wasn’t going to get John off at him for marking his precious Sherlock), but enough for the other man to feel it. And god, John was right. Sherlock practically arched up into the pain, moaning like a porn star and…breaking character for a brief moment. It was Sherlock under his hands, his lips, Sherlock’s cock pressing into his groin, not Q’s.   
Bond swung them around, slamming Sherlock against the nearest wall to check his new theory, and indeed, where Q was usually modest enough in bed (to an extent) the noises Sherlock made as his body internalized the pain were beautiful, and most defiantly not Q.   
“Bond,” Sherlock moaned again, hands working their way up Bond’s shirt, shucking the garment onto the floor and tracing his rather impressive physic with musician’s fingers. Q had a typist’s rapid fingers, and for a moment the connection re-asserted itself before Bond dug his nails into Sherlock’s hips, eliciting another groan.   
“Let…let me down,” Sherlock breathed after a few minutes of groping and forceful snogging, “I’ll make it worth your while.”   
Bond did as he was told, releasing the painfully thin detective – another parallel – and watching as he slid fluidly to the floor, unbuttoning Bond’s trousers and pulling the zip down with his teeth, mouthing at his pants for a few moments before pulling pants and trousers down, licking a torturously slow stripe up the bottom of Bond’s cock. Bond moaned, head falling back. All he could see of Sherlock’s head was his mass of black curls, and damn they were familiar. Hands moving of their own accord, Bond wound his fingers into that mop of onyx, stroking down his scalp like Q enjoyed, reveling in the feel of Q – no, Sherlock’s tongue on his cock, circling it, endlessly teasing.   
“Get on with it,” Bond growled, belatedly remembering he was supposed to be making a good impression on Sherlock.   
If Sherlock was offended, he didn’t show it, simple drawing back to take Bond deep into the heat of his mouth, sucking back with such force Bond had to grasp the hall table’s edge for support. Damn, he would have to ask Q to try that when he got home.  
The initial shock tactic used up, Sherlock seemed to turn to his tongue, flicking it here and there, the slight pressure just enough of a tease, the firm pressure of his mouth enough to keep Bond gasping. When he felt the pleasure building, he pulled at Sherlock’s head, drawing him off,  
“Not that I wasn’t enjoying myself,” he clarified, voice husky enough to match Sherlock’s own, “but I believe I was supposed to fuck you tonight, was I not?”  
Sherlock wiped his lips, red and swollen slightly both from the kissing and from working Bond’s cock, giving a little nod before turning and leading the way to the couch, where he rummaged for a moment in the nearest drawer, drawing out a bottle of lube and a few condoms, which he threw on the table before arranging himself on the couch and shedding his shirt, beginning on his trousers before raising one eyebrow at Bond: an invitation.   
Bond wasn’t one to pass it up.   
It had been said, in MI-6 hallways and break rooms, that Bond most closely resembled some sort of panther, stalking his prey in silence before letting out a tremendous growl and pouncing.   
An approximation of this occurred as Bond slid forward, ripping off Sherlock’s trousers and pants in a few quick movements, grasping his already-hard cock in one callused hand and pumping a few times.   
Sherlock moaned desperately, rutting shamelessly against Bond’s leg in a way that was far too wanton and far too Q-like for Bond’s comfort. Nonetheless, he had gotten this far. He wasn’t going to back out now.  
He reached out, grasping the back of Sherlock’s neck with punishing force, bringing their lips together in a harsh clash of teeth and tongue, biting the other man’s lip until he tasted blood. And there was Sherlock again, not Q, moaning pornographically at the pain, scrabbling at Bond’s back as if begging him for more. Bond smiled slightly evilly, wondering if he dared drag it out, just to tease the man, but on reflection decided it might be better for everyone if it was over quickly. He reached over to the table, snapping open the lube and coating one finger first, circling Sherlock’s tight hole while me thrashed beneath him.  
“Quiet, you,” Bond murmured, pressing the first finger in, “I could just leave you like this, open and begging.”  
The detective’s eyes snapped up, and he met Bond’s with snarky superiority, “but you won’t. Now get on with it.”  
“Pushy.”  
But he complied. He added another finger, then a third before Sherlock was really ready, guessing correctly that he liked it a bit rough.   
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, James, you’re driving me mad. Just do it already,” Sherlock said, and again, it was like Q was the one talking, not Sherlock.   
“As you wish,” Bond answered sardonically, rolling on a condom and coating himself in lube before pushing in, perhaps a bit harder than he would usually, but if Sherlock’s head, thrown back against the couch’s arm, was any indication, he appreciated it. He sat there for a moment, enjoying the tight heat of a willing body around him, but as usual, Sherlock’s impatience won out.   
“Move, idiot!” Sherlock hissed, the effect ruined somewhat by the desperate edge to his voice. Bond smirked slightly; he always enjoyed the moment when his partner gave in;  
“Are you sure?” he asked innocently.   
Sherlock’s eyes were pure irritation, but before he could say anything, Bond drew out, thrusting back in, hard. Sherlock screamed. He thrust his hips up to meet Bond’s establishing a steady rhythm between them; long, deep, hard strokes from Bond, Sherlock’s hips rising to meet him on each thrust, hands clutching Bond’s shoulders as his cries grew more and more desperate. And this was just Sherlock. There was no Q in the way Sherlock’s neck pulsed under his nips and licks, or how his screams rose in volume and intensity. James fucked him with abandon, feeling his release building in his gut, glad the mind games had stopped so he could just enjoy…  
He reached around to grasp Sherlock’s cock, pumping him with his hand to pull him over the edge with him. The detective came with a shout, tensing up for a moment before going completely limp.   
They lay like that for a few moments, catching their breath, then Bond laughed,  
“You Holmes’s and your bloody mind games”  
Sherlock smirked,   
“John says they’re not socially acceptable, but they’re quite informative.”  
Bond snorted. Of course they were.   
His pants and the rest of his clothing was still lying scattered by the entryway so, with a groan, he picked himself up, stretching and dressing conscious of Sherlock’s sleepy eyes on him.   
“Going already?” Sherlock asked him. Bond shrugged,  
“Sorry, dear. I’ve got a very jealous boyfriend at home. Wouldn’t want him to get angry.” He winked, pulling on his shoes and nodding to Sherlock, before slipping out into the night, pulling out his phone to send a text to Q:  
Q: your brother’s a pain slut. He’s got an impressive mouth, though. -Bond  
There was a pause, then:  
Bond: Oh, shut up. You’re not making me jealous; I’ve been quite reliably informed my mouth can perform miracles, thank you. -Q  
Bond snorted, getting into his beloved Aston Marin (not his old one, sadly) and disregarding the seatbelt as he normally did.   
Q: reliably? And who was this? –Bond  
His phone buzzed again as he pulled into the lot.   
Bond: Get in here, Bond. I’m not a patient man.  
Bond smiled. He got out, locking the door and disarming the infrared security field. His phone buzzed again, and he looked down, walking straight into John Watson.   
“Oi! Oh. It’s you, Bond. How’d it go?” John asked, face going through a strange mix of anger, to confusion, to apprehension. Bond smiled, not too lewdly,   
“Fine. Yours has quite a thing for pain; I had no idea.”   
John sighed, mouth turning down in a rather murderous frown, running a hand through his already-mussed hair,  
“Yeah, I know,” then, at Bond’s look, “yours was fine. You’re right, he’s stronger than he looks.”  
Bond nodded, stepping past John as John headed out to the street, presumably to catch a taxi, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders set in an angry curve. He shook his head, staring down at the text from Q again,  
Bond: careful with Doctor. He’s more possessive than he looks.  
James Bond had known (and manipulated) a fair number of people in his time. And he knew what a man likely to snap looked like. John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes, and Bond was sure if he were any less in love, he would never have allowed this mad situation to continue.


	5. Fuck's the Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Q. John's not exactly happy with how the night worked out.

“So,” John began uneasily, “nice place.”  
Q looked up distractedly,  
“Oh. Thanks. I let Bond deal with the furniture. Beware of the wires; sorry, I’m afraid I’m not great with neatness.”  
John snorted,  
“You don’t leave dismembered body parts on the kitchen table. That’s a step up where I’m concerned.”  
Q smirked, busy with a computer he had made a beeline for as soon as they entered the flat, fingers darting over the keyboard. John marveled for a moment that he could apparently talk and type at the same time. Holmes. They were all bloody geniuses.   
“Sorry, doctor,” Q said, “just finishing up. I’m afraid my work follows me home to some extent.”  
John glanced at the wires scattered across the various walls and floors and thought that might be a bit of an understatement.  
“John, please. Seems only right. What’s your name, by the way? It can’t be Q, can it?”  
Another little smirk.  
“It’s not. Our parents would never be so kind.”  
“So what is it?”  
Q hesitated for a moment. He finished typing, shutting down the laptop and stowing it on the nearest table before looking up at John again;  
“It’s Quinten, for short. I never go by my full name.”  
“Would you like me to use it tonight?”  
Q considered for a moment, then shook his head,  
“Not particularly, if you can work with Q. It’s what you know me as, and Bond’s the only one who really calls me Quinten.”  
“Just out of interest, what is your full name?” John asked, intrigued in spite of himself. Q sighed,  
“Quintenimus.”  
The doctor snorted in spite of himself. Q glared,  
“May I just point out your own lover’s name? We can’t all be named John.”  
“I think half of London disagrees,” John pointed out.   
Q shook his head, reaching down for his shirt buttons and beginning to undo them. John hesitated,  
“Are we really going to…”  
Q glanced critically at him,  
“If you’re still in agreement, yes. I’m sorry there’s no time for a wine-and-dine; that’s more Bond’s area. And knowing Sherlock, they’ll be done before much longer, and I really don’t want to know what Bond’ll say if he walks in before we’ve finished.”   
John thought about it for a moment, then nodded. It was true. Bond’s shirts were tight enough that it took no stretch of imagination on his part to see just how royally fucked he would be if the larger man took offence. Then again, the quiet part of him thought, if he walked in on him and Sherlock he might just have to test Bond’s supposed invincibility to bullets.   
“Stop thinking, John,” Q murmured, and John realized the younger man was suddenly standing very close to him, undoing the buttons on his own shirt, those wide green-blue eyes fixed on his own.   
He nodded once, deciding not to try for actual words, hesitantly reaching up to take Q’s slim hips in his hands,  
“Is…what should I do? I don’t want to hurt you at all.” he asked carefully. Q grinned mischievously, drawing away and tossing John’s shirt down to join his own,  
“Oh, John. Remember who I’m dating then think about that question again.”   
He had a point. So, when Q pressed forward, attaching his lips to John’s with quick, heavy force, John returned in kind, pulling Q’s thin hips against his own and grinding against the other man, already feeling an erection coming on. Q let out a little mew, like a cat being stroked and wrapped his arms around John’s neck. It was nice, John decided, having a partner he didn’t have to lean down to kiss.   
“I should have gone for the short one,” John laughed into Q’s mouth, “Sherlock’s bloody tall even when he isn’t posing.”   
Q chuckled,   
“I would say the same, but I’ve become quite fond of James carrying me to bed, though never tell him that.”   
“I wouldn’t dare.”   
After a few minutes of heavy snogging, with hands roaming over bare chests and down to stroke already-hard cocks, Q drew back slightly,  
“I’m going to ask we don’t do this on the bed, for obvious reasons,” he said quietly, and John inclined his head, understanding, hoping Sherlock had thought of the same issue, or if he and Bond were going at it in his bed right now. It would be so typically Sherlock if they were.   
“Of course,” he answered easily, “any preferences?”   
Q’s smirk returned, with just a hint of lust about the edges that brought John down with him into that place only Sherlock brought him nowadays. He blamed it on the similar hair.   
“Ravish me, doctor,” he whispered, right in John’s ear, before licking the shell and dropping to his knees. John was still caught on ‘ravish me,’ when Q started in on his zip, drawing out his cock and taking it in hand. And god, those hands were delicate, touching and stroking…  
After a few moments of torturously light teases, Q leaned in, licking up John’s cock before taking it deeply into his mouth, swallowing around the end in a way that made John groan.   
And then he was gone. John looked down to find Q removing his trousers, lying propped up against one elbow on the charcoal-grey carpet.   
“Come on, Doctor,” Q said in that same, teasing tone, “someone’s got to get me ready,” and he tossed a bottle of lube at John, pushing of trousers and pants and just lying there, like a bloody prostitute offering himself up.   
“Does Bond know you’re such a little slut?” John growled, joining Q on the ground, forgetting that he was supposed to be convincing Q he had the right to stay with Sherlock. Q smirked,  
“Who do you think taught Bond all his tricks?”  
John grinned, leaning down to press his lips lightly against Q’s before snogging him properly, hands trailing down to circle Q’s nipples, making him mew again in that soft, high voice, farther down until he took Q’s cock in hand, pumping him a few times just to get the younger man exited, then farther until his index finger was pressed up against Q’s hole.   
“Are you ready?” he asked, and Q nodded. John quickly lubed up three fingers, starting with one, pressing into Q’s body as slowly as he could. Q just moaned, muttering something that sounded like ‘oh for fuck’s sake’ then, louder,  
“More, John. Please.”   
John obliged. By the time he had three fingers inside Q he was beginning to get impatient himself.   
“Condom?” he asked, and Q produced one from god knows where. John prepared himself, then pressed the head of his cock up against Q, staring the smaller man in the eyes and asking,  
“Are you sure?”  
Q nodded, wrapping his arms around John’s neck again and kissing him hard. John pushed in, going slowly and carefully, until Q’s frantic his rotations had him shoving himself all the way up to the hilt.   
“God, that feels so good!” Q crowed, then, “on your back, if you don’t mind, John.”   
John, remembering what Bond had said, complied, enjoying the feel of the soft carpet on his back, and Q hot and tight around him.   
“Shit,” he muttered as the boy, with a quirky little smile that was defiantly not legal, pulled himself up then, with a strange little hip roll that felt absolutely heavenly, speared himself on John’s cock again. John moaned.   
“Enjoying yourself, doctor Watson?” Q asked. John nodded.  
Another roll. Another moan. John would have helped, but Q’s insistent hands on his hips stopped him, so instead he just enjoyed the ride, doing his best to make it as good as possible for the smaller man, though he seemed to be getting off on it as it was. Well, John wasn’t exactly going to stop him.   
“You feel fucking fantastic!” John groaned as he felt his orgasm building, “I’m going to come.”  
He reached forward and grasped Q’s cock, stroking it in time with Q’s thrusts, dragging Q with him over the edge.   
They lay there like that for what felt like a second and an hour, then Q dragged himself bleary-eyed up, rubbing the back of his hand over his face, disposing of the condom and lightly shoving a thoroughly blissed-out John,  
“Come on. Bond’ll be back soon. Thanks for that, by the way.”  
“I should be the one thanking you, I think,” John muttered sleepily, sitting up and hunting through the pile of clothing the had left around the flat for his jumper and jeans, “got what you need?”   
Q nodded, but his face was turned the other way, so John couldn’t see his expression. Not that it would have helped him in any case. Holmes’s and their bloody poker faces.   
“Alright,” John stood, stretching, “I’ll be going then?”  
Q nodded again, then, as if realizing that this might not be standard protocol for sexual encounters, spun around,  
“Oh. Ummm….if you…” he looked so lost John had to smile, remembering how Sherlock had looked just as confused after they’d first slept together, wondering if he should stay in John’s bed or leave.   
“It’s fine,” John held up a hand, zipping up his trousers with the other, “really. I have to get home to Sherlock in any case. Talk to you later then?”   
Q smiled in relief,   
“Yes, I assume so.   
The hacker leaned forward to give John a quick peck on the cheek, then John left, banging down the stairs, preoccupied with thoughts of Sherlock…and Bond. The image was not a pleasant one, he had to admit. What if Sherlock finally realized that he was just a tired army doctor with no idea how to handle a Holmes? Or, worse, what if Sherlock decided, with good reason, that Bond was a better choice evolutionarily or whatever? He shuddered, eyes on the ground.   
He thought at first he had hit a wall, but on looking up, he found Bond staring back at him.   
“Oi! Oh. It’s you, Bond. How’d it go?” he began angrily, trailing off into the obvious question as soon as his befuddled brain registered the face before him.   
“Fine. Yours has quite a thing for pain; I had no idea,” Bond said offhand, and John felt a sick twist in his stomach. If Bond had marked Sherlock…god, Bond had the body of a professional gymnast; what if Sherlock had decided Bond could better fuel his insane desires for release?   
“Yeah, I know,” he said. He noticed Bond was looking at him with a mirror of his own apprehension and realized the other man must be having a milder version of his own frantic insecurity.  
“Yours was fine. You’re right, he’s stronger than he looks,” he added.  
Bond nodded, stepping past John who walked out into the street with out a backwards glance, hailing a cab and trying to push all thoughts of Sherlock, of Q, of Bond out of his mind. There was a football match on tonight. Focus on that. Yes, football. He could handle football.


	6. Fucking Holmes's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night (day) after and the beginning of night two. No porn (not really), lots of character stuff/ Q and Bond in mission mode.

“John! John, is that you?” Sherlock called from the living room, head swiveling around to meet John’s eye. John nodded, shoving the door closed with unnecessary force, tugging off his shoes one after the other. He heard Sherlock come up behind him, but he didn’t turn around.   
“John. Something’s wrong,” Sherlock muttered, wrapping wraith-like arms around John’s middle. John said nothing. The image of Bond, fucking Sherlock as he screamed, was imprinted on his memory like the shadow of a bright light when he closed his eyes.   
“Nothing’s wrong, Sherlock,” he finally managed, tiredly, brushing off his flat mate and lover and stumping up to bed. 

“So. Did you enjoy yourself?” Q asked the next morning, coming up behind Bond and pressing his bare body against the agent’s broad back. Bond chuckled, thankful that nothing had changed.  
“Surprisingly. I missed you, though.”  
Q grinned, hugging Bond a bit tighter than normal. They weren’t’ the sort of couple to talk about it, but there was an unspoken relief in their voices, in the way they held each other.   
“Glad to hear it.”

 

“Mr. Holmes? Phone call for you,” Anthea held out the little mobile, placing it on the desk and hitting speaker so Mycroft could talk while working on a memo to the PM. The man was being an insufferable arse yet again, and somehow the job had fallen to Mycroft to tell him precisely what he was doing wrong. It could have something to do with the fact that he was one of the few people in the English government PM couldn’t actually fire.   
“Mycroft,” It was Sherlock’s voice on the other end, superior and clipped, and Mycroft sighed.  
“What is it now, Sherlock?”  
“I’m offended, Mycroft. One would almost think you didn’t want to hear from me.”  
“Experience has taught me to be wary of impending catastrophe when you bother to contact me at all, Sherlock,” Mycroft pointed out tiredly. Sherlock let out a little huff, but didn’t protest.   
“Aren’t you in a pleasant mood. The PM require babysitting again?”  
“Why did you call, Sherlock?”  
“The experiment. John and I have a few days without a case, and Lestrade’s the same. I’ll check with Q in a moment.”  
Mycroft glanced at Anthea, who nodded. His schedule was clear (relatively).  
“That’s acceptable with my schedule. Will you call when you have Quinten’s answer?”  
“Of course. Will you inform Gregory to be ready tonight?”  
“Yes. Oh, and Sherlock?”  
But Sherlock had already hung up, leaving Mycroft with a dial tone and a frown.   
“Anthea,” he glanced at his assistant, who was still standing by the desk, awaiting orders, “would you have another camera installed in 221B, please? In John Watson’s bedroom.”  
Anthea was very good at her job. She did not question her orders when she was told to phone the PM with the words ‘ungrateful idjit’ in the prepared memo. She did not question when a certain DI of Scotland Yard left the building with a different shirt on than he entered. And she certainly did not question why she had been ordered to install a camera in the bedroom of her boss’s brother’s boyfriend. It just wasn’t done.   
“Of course, sir,” she said instead, inclining her head as one might to a king, “I’ll see to it.”  
“Thank you,” Mycroft muttered, “oh, and please ring Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard and tell him Sherlock’s little experiment will progress to its next stage tonight.”  
“Yes, sir.”

 

The sound of computer fans going into overload nearly gave Q a panic attack. God, he hated that sound. It was like babies crying.   
“Bond, get your arse onto that plane,” he nearly screamed into the mic, watching as agent 007, who had spent the last twenty-four hours doing his very best to kill his Quartermaster and lover by ignoring his every instruction, opted to run away from the plane that promised to bring him back safe and sound, electing instead to charge at the (dead) mark’s husband wielding the chain that had held the waiting airplane’s steps in place, whipping it around the man’s neck until he fell to the ground. Q watched, past screaming, as the man thrashed about in his death throes, dealing Bond at least a dozen shallow scrapes with a stiletto that Bond bore without a sound, grimly holding on until the target fell senseless to the ground.   
“Am I worrying you, quartermaster?” Bond asked, tired, but still on the elated high of another task completed, another fight won. Q gritted his teeth,  
“Bond, if one of your stupid stunts doesn’t kill you in the next few years, I will do the deed myself, to save myself the anxiety attacks.”  
“Lies do not suit you, Q,” Bond chuckled, reaching the plane (the steps had drifted off down the runway) and hooking the chain around one wing to climb up.  
“Afraid I can’t return the compliment,” Q muttered, tapping away on hiss keyboard, “now get in the bloody plane, 007.”  
“007 today, is it? Well, let’s hope you’re in a better mood by the time I get home.”  
“Bond, must you?” Q sighed, watching out of the corner of his eye as the mouths of each of his minions hit the floor. They hadn’t come out officially yet, so their little exchanges over the coms were still novelty enough to keep the pups guessing.   
“Of course. Or would you rather I turn my attentions to someone more deserving? The stewardess is quiet pretty,” Bond remarked from Calcutta. Q shook his head,  
“I’d ruin their credit scores and make sure any light they attempted to turn on for the next ten years was, quite literally, shocking. So unless there’s someone you’d like to see dead…”  
“Not at the moment, no,” the sound of Bond humming contentedly echoed through Q-branch, and Q bit his lower lip. The sense-memory of that particular noise was not something he wanted to recall at this particular moment.   
“Why are you humming, Bond,” he asked the agent garrulously. Bond grinned,  
“Am I making you uncomfortable, Q?”  
“A bit, yes.”  
“Then-“  
The sound of a phone ringing with ‘Staying Alive’ echoed through Q-Branch, and Bond trailed off incredulously.  
“Tell me that’s not your ringtone, Q.”  
Q said nothing.   
“Q?”  
“What? You said not to tell you.”  
Bond moaned.   
“I do not believe you’re real, Q.”  
“Yes, well the feeling’s mutual.”   
Q glanced at the caller ID, seeing SHERLOCK HOLMES pop up in Helvetica. He sighed, and punched the green button, putting it on speaker so he could continue typing.   
“Q?”  
“Yes, what is it Sherlock?” Q asked. He heard Bond stop talking on the com line, opting to listen instead.   
“Q! Didn’t think you would answer your phone. Bond’s on a mission, isn’t he?”  
“Yes. How – “   
Sherlock grumbled impatiently on the other end,  
“Not important. Are you free tonight?”  
Q sighed,  
“In a manner of speaking. Why?”  
“Mycroft’s little chessboard’s quiet for once, and Lestrade’s run out of cases for me. Thought we might as well continue with our experiment.”  
Q considered it. He had been looking forward to some post-mission sex with Bond, but he could always indulge as soon as Bond returned. He was certainly not sending the man over to Mycroft fresh off the plane, adrenaline still running high. That version of James was strictly his.   
“Sounds amicable,” Q replied, “though it’d best be late. Bond’s not back yet.”  
“Of course,” Sherlock’s know-it-all grin was no doubt stretching ear-to-ear, “Calcutta, wasn’t it?”  
Q didn’t even try to ask.   
“Yes, yes, Sherlock. You’re very smart. Now, if you’ll excuse me? Saving the world and all that.”  
“And they say I’m the dramatic one.”  
Q smirked, ending the call with his elbow before turning his attention back to James.   
“Did you hear that?” he asked.   
On screen, Bond nodded.   
“Is that alright?” he asked next, nervously. He wouldn’t blame Bond in the slightest for telling him to make his brothers fuck off so they could enjoy a night in. they would probably both enjoy themselves more, if nothing else.   
“Yes,” was Bond’s brief, monosyllabic response. Q sighed in relief.  
“I’m sorry, Bond.”  
“No. You do what you have to. I won’t fault you for that.”  
“Thank you, Bond. See you tonight.”  
“Stay with me until I land.”  
“Of course.”

 

Greg would never admit it to himself, but he had quite the thing for seeing Mycroft in his suit. Well, he had a thing for the man out of it too, but that was only to be expected.   
“Is this really necessary?” he asked the literal head of the British government as he helped him with his tie. Mycroft sighed, meeting Greg’s eyes in the mirror and trying to convey some sense of an apology. He was only mildly successful; Mycroft Holmes didn’t do apologies.   
“I’m sorry, Greg. You know how it is. I’m afraid I care far too much for Sherlock and Q than is good for any of us. Sherlock in particular is rather like dealing with an over-exuberant five-year-old who insists on playing with fire.”  
Greg couldn’t argue with that.   
“Fine,” he conceded, “just…I love you. You know that, right?”  
Mycroft turned around at that, taking Greg’s face in his hands and pressing his lips to that deliciously uncertain mouth.   
“I wouldn’t feel at all comfortable about giving you to someone else for even a night if I didn’t believe that to be true,” he murmured, and Greg felt his stomach warm.   
“Thanks, My,” he whispered, catching the politician’s smile as he was dragged out the door and into the waiting black car. Anthea was in the front seat, along with a blandly good-looking driver who hit the gas as soon as the door was closed.   
“So, how are we planning on…doing it?” Greg asked a bit nervously when they’d settled into traffic. Mycroft glanced over from where he was texting Q and Sherlock simultaneously.  
“Well, you and Sherlock will be conducting your affairs together, and I will be conducting a similar process with Bond.”  
“No,” Greg sighed, tempted to laugh at his boyfriend’s obvious avoidance of the word ‘fuck,’ or even ‘sex,’ “I mean, where are we going after 221B?”   
Mycroft’s face cleared, and he turned back to his phone for a moment, texting rapidly before looking up again,  
“I’m to go back to Bond’s flat with him, while you and Sherlock will be coming to ours. Q has informed us that conducting negotiations somewhere John can hear is probably an option best left alone.”  
Greg thought about it, then nodded. It wasn’t as if he had any say in the matter anyways. 

They reached Baker’s street in just over fifteen minutes, the black car idling by the curb at a word from Mycroft, oblivious to the ‘no stopping at any time’ sign on the sidewalk. Greg took a moment to pity the poor bobby who tried to ticket Mycroft Holmes’s car.   
Mycroft’s phone buzzed, and Greg, looking over his shoulder, saw Sherlock’s WHERE ARE YOU MYCROFT; DON’T TELL ME YOU’RE STILL EATING text flash up. He snorted.   
“What?” he held up his hands as Mycroft frowned playfully at him, “I didn’t say anything.”  
Through the door, up the stairs, they heard voices emanating from John and Sherlock’s flat; obviously Bond and Q had already arrived.   
“….oh come off it, you know he’s addicted to his cakes.” Sherlock’s voice moaned. John, predictably, cut in to stop the detective from lancing into another of his rants,  
“Alright, Sherlock point taken, you’re thinner than Mycroft, well done.”  
“Thank you, John,” Sherlock griped, “though I do wish they’d stop lurking by the door and come in already.”  
Four pairs of eyes fixed on the entrance to the flat as Mycroft and Lestrade pushed their way into the gathering, Mycroft with his usual nonchalant air, Lestrade a bit twitchy still about the entire affair.   
“Sherlock, wonderful to see you as always,” Mycroft almost purred, not bothering to sit down, “I see the childish petulance has yet to depart.”  
“I see the cakes have yet to take their leave of your fridge,” Sherlock shot back, not a particularly good insult as they went, but he was already sulking in his chair, glaring murderously at everything and everyone.   
“One of his experiments went wrong,” John explained to the newcomers, “apparently finding an alkali that reacts with hemoglobin and nothing else isn’t as easy as one might think.”   
Mycroft shook his head as one might to an indulgent child, tapping his umbrella lazily against his foot.   
“Your patience is legendary, Doctor Watson,” he drawled, then, to where Bond was lurking menacingly in a corner, “are you ready to leave, Commander Bond?”  
Bond glanced at Q, who gave an almost imperceptible nod, rising from his seat to kiss the agent soundly on the lips, whispering,  
“I’m sorry again, Bond,” before giving him a little shove towards The British Government.   
Mycroft nodded pleasantly, then turned to Sherlock,  
“Sherlock, get up.”  
Sherlock remained rooted where he was, scowling.   
“Greg, if you would, drag my obstinate brother out of his chair so we can get this over with?”  
Gregory was more than happy to comply.  
“Come on, Sherlock,” he grunted, grasping the detective’s forearm in a firm grasp, thrilling a bit at the chance to finally get out some of his anger at the prick who made his life hell occasionally. Sherlock, for his part, just moaned lethargically, letting Greg tug for a few moments before standing in a fluid movement and stumping dispiritedly towards the door, sweeping out without a second glance. Greg looked back at the room at large, noting John’s tight jaw and Q’s little sigh.  
“Well…I’ll be going then,” he muttered awkwardly, before dashing out after the detective, hoping he hadn’t just run off into he night.   
Mycroft watched them go with a little sigh identical to Q’s, before turning to Bond.   
“Shall we, Mr. Bond?” he asked silkily. Bond nodded as stiffly as he was able, trading one last long, significant look with Q before ducking of the room, into the black car of Mycroft Holmes.   
Which just left Q and John alone in 221B.   
“John, I know it may be an imposition of me,” Q said quietly when the silence became uncomfortable, “but I was wondering if I might stay here tonight? Bond and Mycroft are going to our place for the night, and I’m not sure even I’m confident enough in our relationship to listen to my brother taking my lover in the parlor.”  
John nodded distractedly, determinedly keeping his face forward, eyes calm, his clenched jaw the only sign of any discomfort.   
“Of course,” he finally replied, “would you like a cup of tea?”   
“Yes, thank you,” Q smiled, “how very British of you.”


End file.
